


The Empty Hearse (alternative)

by 221b_hound



Series: The Pure and Simple Truth [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Multi, not until later in the series though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: Sherlock has been dead for six months. Then John gets an unexpected message.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Text from the actual episode comes from [Ariane DeVere's fantastic transcripts ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html). They will be my source in the stories to come.

John Watson didn’t mean to stop at the pub on the way home from work. His route home passed the T junction which led to the King George, and his feet had simply turned and taken him there.

He supposed, later, that he should tell Ella. But that was impossible. Telling Ella anything at all remained impossible.

He hadn’t really meant to have the first scotch but, well, here he was and he’d feel like a tosser if he stood at the bar for two minutes and then just walked away without ordering a drink.

And it was. You know. _Six months._

He didn’t mean to have the second scotch either, but it was six months _to the day_.

John raised his hand to signal for a third scotch – which he very much intended to have – when the text alert sang out from his pocket.

Not _that_ text alert of course. (His lips quirked in the unbidden memory, a faint echo heard in his mind. Bloody drama queen, pretending to be so offended when he found out what he sounded like texting or calling John . _The Ride of the Valkyries_. Funny bastard.)

Eyes pricking (do _n’t, don’t, don’t, not here_ ) John focused on _this_ text tone. _Bad Romance_. She’d set it herself. He liked her sense of humour. Reminded him of… ( _don’t, don’t , don’t_ ).

** Dinner still on? **

_Shit. **Shit**_.  He’d forgotten Mary.

John still thought about that third scotch, but then he heard his sister’s voice. Brittle-bitter. _Go on, Johnnie. Come on down._

John paid for his drinks and left the pub, walking briskly.

Two strides out the door, his phone rang. Just the usual ring tone. He answered it. “John Watson.”

“Doctor Watson,” came a deep voice, distorted with technology so as to be unrecognisable, “I have a message for you from beyond the grave.”

John started, pulling the phone away to stare at the screen. Number unknown.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No, it isn’t,” said the distorted voice, “It’s been too long. Earlier messages didn’t reach you. His Majesty intercepted them, it seems.”

John’s eyes darted to the King George sign hanging over the pub door. Was this a dig about the drinking? He kept it under control. He wasn’t _problem drinker_.

“Not King George,” said the voice.

John gripped the phone harder, and the shaking in his hand stilled.

“Who is this?”

“A friend.”

“Why would… His Majesty…” John’s mind unfroze, unfurled, “Fucking Mycroft. What’s he got to do with this?”

“His Majesty believes your sentimental attachment to Sherlock Holmes compromises his brother’s safety.”

Heart hammering. Hands steady as a rock. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because Mr Holmes's sentimental attachment to his brother compromises _his_ judgement. And because Sherlock asked me to.”

“Sherlock’s really alive? Tell me…!”

“Stand by for your message.” The voice fractured under static, and then John heard a voice.

“John.”

God. God. God. “Oh god.” Half a moan, out there on the London street.

“This is a recording. I don’t know when it will reach you.”

John pulled the phone away again. No video. Just the voice. That voice. _His_ voice.

“I haven’t much time. Someone is watching you. Probably several someones. Don't know who yet. The assassins were dealt with, but be careful.  Visit me. I'll get a message to you when I can.  Someone's coming. I have to go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Like a dream.

*

Somehow, John’s feet carried him three more streets home.

Mary was waiting by his gate and he walked faster. Her sardonic smile – eyebrow raised, mouth crooked, _You forgot me_ in her gaze – morphed into concern and he didn’t know why, until she dashed towards him.

“My god, John, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head. Mary took his face in her hands and he just shook his head. She grasped his hands, which were shaking again.

“John, you look like death warmed over. What...?”

“Not here. Not here. Someone’s… I think someone’s watching.”

She didn’t ask. She didn’t question or argue or do anything but lead him to his door, take the key from his trembling hand and let them in. Shut the door, locked it, while he leaned against the wall to breathe, breathe, breathe.

“It’s a trick,” he said.

“John, what’s happened?”

He raised his head to look at her.

“Sherlock. Sherlock happened.”

*

Mary believed him. John loved her for that. For a lot of things, but for that most especially. She sat with him and let him talk and talk.

“ _Visit him_ , he said,” John’s fists were clenched on his lap, “ _Where_?”

Mary looked at him kindly. Wrapped her hands over his fists. “Where you always visit him.”

He blinked at her.

“I know you visit his grave every week, John. It’s okay.”

John nodded. “I just… sometimes I like to…”

“I know,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

God he loved her so much, right then.

“You’re the best thing that could have happened to me Mary.”

Her smile. Sunny and quirky and like she was full of secrets she might one day share with him. “I know.”

Next morning, John called in sick. Mary called her office (“ _I’m a public servant, John, it’s not like England will fall if I take a day off. I mostly stamp permit applications.”)_

At Sherlock’s grave, in a small urn of dried flowers ( _who left those?_ John wondered) was a note. A grubby scrap of paper, bearing the message:

**VATICAN CAMEOS**

“What does it mean?” asked Mary.

“That it really is Sherlock,” said John, “And he’s in danger.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John insists on joining Mycroft's mission to extract Sherlock from Serbia - but once Sherlock is home, he is strangely distant from John. John at least has Mary to lean on, while Sherlock takes Molly to cases. But things are coming to a head, and Sherlock finally meets Mary at a French restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant scene uses [Ariane DeVere's transcript ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html)of the episode.

Messages arrived sporadically after that. Mostly at the grave. Once or twice a recorded message.

Wait, they all said. _Wait._

John was good at waiting. Except when he wasn’t.

John _hated_ waiting.

Some things changed. John stopped seeing Ella. He was less withdrawn.

Some things didn’t. Mary still made him laugh. She made him feel better.  She made him feel like he could breathe.

And sometimes after work, his steps still took him to the King George. Those days, he drank two scotches he’d never intended to have. But never the third. Always, Harry’s voice in his ear.

_Hey Johnnie. Come on down._

Another change: John grew a beard. Which was to say, he stopped shaving, or forgot to shave, or perhaps he felt he needed to do something to mark the altered path of his life.

Mary claimed she liked the beard. She liked less the fact that John slept badly. Insomnia many nights. Nightmares on the others. She practically moved in, and John liked that too. _Waiting_ would drive him mad if he had to do it alone.

And then the message at the gravestone. Another scrap of paper. Smudged in grime and blood.

_Come at once, if convenient. Better hurry. My brother will know where._

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t impressed, though he knew that John had found out Sherlock was alive.

“The extraction is about to commence, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft, “You’re not part of the team.”

John held out the scrap of paper. “Sherlock says otherwise.”

Mycroft sighed like he was born to win gold for his country in the sport of dramatic exasperation.

“Well then. We mustn’t keep little brother waiting any longer.”

*

Mycroft went into the bunker first, dressed in his heavy coat and fur hat, and speaking in his thick new accent. John waited with the extraction crew, following as they took out, one by one, in complete silence, all the guards.

They crept inside.

John heard two strong voices speaking Serbian, and the sound of blows landing on flesh and another voice grunting in pain, speaking in Serbian dull and thick with pain.

John’s hand flexed around his gun. Steady as a rock.

 _His voice_. No matter the language, John knew that voice.

John moved quietly on the balls of his feet down the hall, in the wake of the agents ahead of him.

Another guard down. Two.

John saw an outline now. The man who was beating Sherlock (tied, spreadeagled, matted and bloody hair, smeared blood on bare shoulders and arms; John’s grip on his gun was cold and calm) paused, shouted and he raised the iron pipe in his hand to bring it down on Sherlock’s skull.

Two shots rang out. Agent Fenton’s gun, and John’s. The Serbian fell, most of his head gone, blood everywhere, spattered over the wall, over Sherlock’s back, over the spectator in the room.

The wet sound of retching. John left Fenton to deal with Mycroft (really not field agent material, apparently) and went to Sherlock.

“We’ve got you,” John said, soothing, holding Sherlock up to ease the pressure on his joints while other agents unchained him from the wall. “I’ve got you.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was a rasp.

“You really pissed that guy off.” Time was short, but John’s hands were assessing rapidly. Cuts, bruises, but nothing broken.

“He didn’t like hearing about his wife and the coffin maker.” Sherlock coughed.

Blood spattered John’s chest from the lacerations in Sherlock’s mouth. “That’d do it.”

“I thought he’d go home to check. I think I may have miscalculated.” The rasp – a laugh – was accompanied by a bloodied smile.

John dredged up a crooked smile in answer. “What, _you_?”

“Miracles happen.” Sardonic.

John’s eyes prickled ( _don’t, don’t, don’t_ ). “Twat.”

Then the agents gathered them up – Sherlock couldn’t quite walk yet – and John morphed from doctor back to soldier, taking the rear guard as they escaped towards the extraction point.

*

Sherlock was up and doing within days, despite his doctor’s orders. Despite Mycroft’s doctor’s orders.

“You are forgetting Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock insisted to Mycroft.

Sherlock didn’t explain that to John. Sherlock seemed not to want to take the _time_ to explain.

Sherlock seemed not to want to take the time for anything much. On the few occasions he let John know the vaguest outline of his plans, he certainly didn’t wait around for anything so mundane as for John to be available to join him.

Twelve months away, half of those dead, as far as John had been concerned, and Sherlock was back to bad, old habits. Well, it wasn’t like John lived at Baker Street any more. He was living with Mary now. And it wasn’t like Sherlock ever called. It wasn’t, it seemed, as though Sherlock needed him. Never had, obviously. And now he’d remembered that.

John avoided the pub now, but the bottle under the sink (hidden/not hidden behind the never-used oven cleaner) was depleted in slow but regular measures.

One glass. Two. Never three. ( _Come on down, Johnnie_.)

*

He was running through the forest. Like an animal.  Driven by terror, by instinct, by the certainty that death was coming.

Fleeing like prey.

Hair long, matted, wild. Lungs aching, legs pumping, eyes seeking escape routes that didn’t exist.

He used to be the hunter. He didn’t like being the hunted.

So much fear.

And then the clicks; rifles bristling like black teeth.

Trapped. Taken. Death and failure.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, startled wide. Heart rate, rapid. Breathing, rapid.

Not a nightmare. A memory.

_All right. Maybe both._

Sherlock shoved himself out of his chair, refusing to look at the empty armchair across from him.

He hadn’t failed _yet_.

Sherlock half stumbled to the bedroom to find fresh clothes, throwing the stale ones he’d slept in on the bed. (Sheets crumpled, twisted. Insomnia and nightmares. Sleeping in the chair hadn’t helped. _Note. Update the spreadsheet on how long he’d functioned without sleep. How many days before he had to crash again_.)

John had to be kept out of it. But he was exhausted. Needed help.

Sherlock texted Molly on his way out the door, waving vaguely in the air as a greeting to Mrs Hudson, calling after him.

_Later, later, laters. One more thing to do first._

*

Mrs Hudson wasn’t happy when John dropped in to Baker Street to visit Sherlock (Mary’s suggestion). Sherlock wasn’t in. Mrs Hudson stood at her open door and glared pointedly until John went in to her kitchen and dropped into a chair.

“What’s keeping you away?” Mrs Hudson slammed teapot and biscuits on the table.

John scratched at his beard, still unshaven, and tried to explain.

“I’ve… found someone. Special. Mary.”

“A _woman_?” Laughter. Scornful.

It hurt, but not for the reasons John thought it would. Chagrin dissolved under irritation.  “I’m not gay, Mrs Hudson.” He sounded more weary than annoyed, which annoyed him. He meant to sound cross.

“But what about _Sherlock_?”

And _there_ was the irritation. “ _He’s not my boyfriend_. He never has been. And it’s not… Sherlock isn’t interested in that.”

“You might be surprised,” she muttered, but John ignored that. Mrs Hudson was forever muttering.

“And it’s not like he’s asked me to move back in,” John added. His irritation wasn’t aimed at Mrs Hudson any more. “Besides. I’ve got my own place now. Mary’s living with me. Has been for two months.”

John didn’t hear the content of the next mutter, only the impatience in it.

John left as Sherlock was returning, but Sherlock was only back long enough to run upstairs, shouting something about a train.

Molly stood in the hall looking bemused and embarrassed. She grimaced at John who nodded back, his expression giving away precisely nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted.

“It’s fine,” John said. It came out brusque.

Molly chewed her lip and stared upward at the faint sound of rapid footsteps in 221B.

“I’m you.” Another blurt. “I mean. Taking notes. Like you do. He said you’re busy. New girlfriend?”

“Mary,” John said. “She’s great.”

More awkward silence.

“He still talks to you.” Blurt.

“What?”

“When you’re not there. When he’s talking to himself. But he’s talking to you.”

“Oh.”

“I think this, now. Taking notes. I think he’s thanking me.”

This was safer ground. “Yes. Yes, thank you for that.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I promised… he was supposed to…”

“He’d sent me a message, but it was intercepted.”

All those messages intercepted, until the anonymous ‘friend’ and then the messages at the grave. _Who had left those scraps there? How had the Friend got hold of them? Seemed no way of knowing, now._ John didn’t say any of it.

Then Sherlock clattered down the stairs.

“Hello John. Looking well. Mary?” He wouldn’t quite look at John.

“Yeah. Yes, she’s great. Good. Really good.”

And suddenly Sherlock looked at him, from shoe leather to beard. A long pause filled with scrutiny. “Oh,” said Sherlock, taken aback, and then he nodded. “Well. Of course. Yes. Take her to _L'Artiste d'Avignon_ in Farringdon for something special. The duck is particularly good. Don’t put it in the champagne glass, it’s passé.”

“Wait, Sherlock, what?”

“Must go. A trainspotter to catch.”

Sherlock and Molly dashed out again, leaving John standing still like stone. Mrs Hudson, leaning in the frame of her door, pursed her lips and tutted.

*

John fussed at the table, rehearsing the words, turning the ring box over and over in his hands. He’d considered the old ring-in-the-champagne idea, but then remembered Sherlock deducing this proposal. Passé. He didn’t want to be passé.

Just say it, then. Right. But first. Drinking champagne wasn’t passé was it?

“Can I ’elp you with anything, sir?”

John stared at the wine menu. It might as well have been written in Arabic. He knew the alphabet but almost none of the actual words. “Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one.”

The waiter loomed over his shoulder. John didn’t look up. He didn’t need a supercilious waiter adding to his jitters.

“Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages.”

“It’s not really my area. What do you suggest?”

“They are all very good but this one, ‘ere, it is a personal favourite. Like an old friend.”

John nodded, vaguely aware that the waiter had removed his glasses with a flourish. Poncy French git. It was a French restaurant, not a bloody French farce at the Theatre Royale.

 _Fuck_. He really was nervous. Cranky with a poncy waiter. Not a good attitude to bring to a proposal. John quaffed the glass of red and felt a little better. At his elbow, the waiter was going on and on.

“It is familiar, but with ze quality of _surprise!”_

John really didn’t care which champagne they had. As long as he had something to chase the red with, especially if she said no. “Look, whatever. Surprise me.”

“Certainly endeavouring to, sir.”

Great. Rude _and_ poncy.

But here was Mary, returning from her ‘freshening up’. She patted his shoulder, and perhaps she didn’t see how he blew out a nervous breath and shoved his hand in his pocket, putting back the box.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine.” _She would say yes. She would_. “I am _fine.”_

She smiled at him, sweet and a little sassy, and suddenly John really was fine.

“So what did you want to talk about, then?”

“Look. I know it hasn’t been long. And you met me at a very difficult point in my life…”

She gazed at him with aching fondness.

“You are… I’ve said it before but really, you are the best thing that could have happened to me. And I… I'd like. If. If you’ll have me. If you could. Mary. See your way…”

Her smile broadened, fondness and delight. “John Watson. Are you proposing to me?”

“I…ah…”

“Because I’m utterly charmed if you are.”

“Does that mean… the answer’s…?”

“Yes, Monsieur, your champagne!”

Only the fit of giggles from Mary stopped him from just clocking the waiter there and then. He stared helplessly at her while the waiter poured champagne. She, eyes wide with the hilarity of it all, held John’s gaze and then nodded emphatically.

“God, really?” Tension broken, John reached across the table for her hands, sending the champagne flying. “Ah, shit, sorry, I....”

And then John looked up at his waiter and saw Sherlock Holmes standing beside their table, mopping down his trouser legs with a napkin.

“You.” John was not amused.

“Surprise.”

Mary stared at him. “You’re… him? Sherlock Holmes?”

“Sssh,” said Sherlock sternly, “It’s meant to be a secret.”

Mary’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you on a stakeout?”

“Of sorts.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s. “Have I… interrupted something?”

“You. Cock.”

“You were always teaching me about timing. Oh well. In my defence, it was very funny.”

“Sherlock, I’m here with Mary to…”

Mary leaned across the table to grab John’s hand. “Oh come on, John. It _is_ rather funny. And I’ve said yes. So…” She beamed up at Sherlock again. “Is it a big case? Can I come? John’s told me so much about your old cases. I’d really love to come on one.”

Sherlock assessed her with a look. “Could be dangerous,” he said.

“Is it more interesting than being a filing clerk with the Office of Rail and Road?”

“Isn’t everything?”

“Count me in!”

“Shh,” said Sherlock, “It’s entirely likely you and John are being watched. No, don’t,” as she started to glance over her shoulder, “Don’t look.”

Mary’s gleeful grin landed on John.

“John. A case! Oh, don’t be so stuffy. You know you think it’s funny.”

John blinked at her and let his smile out, the lift to the corner of his mouth, the spark in his eyes. He looked up at Sherlock though, and sobered.

“Isn’t Molly available?” Almost waspish.

“That was a… present. For Molly. This is different. This is the game, on at last. And make no mistake, John. We’re being hunted.”

Far from being concerned, John’s whole expression was alight, like his soul had been banked embers all this time, and now had fuel and oxygen, was flaming bright again.

Then John remembered Mary.

“You should go home, Mary…”

“No. No way. I’ve sat through every daft James Bond and dodgy action film with you, listened to every crazy story about this man. I’m having an adventure too.” To Sherlock. “What do I get to do?”

Sherlock assessed her a moment longer. Then smiled at her. Warm. A real smile. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Mary beamed at John. John took her hand and squeezed it. To Sherlock, he said, “What’s up tonight, then?”

“Sebastian Moran. Moriarty’s last lieutenant. He seems to be planning a terrorist attack. I’ve tracked him down to a missing train car and a plot against the government.”

“Really. And you couldn’t tell me this before.”

“The plan worked better if you didn’t know.”

Mary made a rude, exasperated noise. “Twat,” she said, “John thought you didn’t want him around any more.”

“I didn’t think that!”

“He didn’t think that!”

With both of them glaring at her, Mary shook her head.  She seemed to be saying “Boys,” in a disgusted mutter under her breath.

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he looked down at John. “It’s Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the world, as always, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Sherlock raised his head, looking out the restaurant window towards the street. “And there he goes. Be at home tomorrow evening, John. I’ll explain everything, and plan the next step.”

Then he was gone, slipping out the door in pursuit.

John watched until Sherlock was out of sight, then turned back to Mary.

“Well.”

“Well,” said Mary, “That’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, that’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“I like him,” she declared.

John’s face creased in a smile, full of relief and warmth. “Good. Good. Right. Champagne? To us.”

“To us,” Mary agreed, and they sipped, and then she grinned her wicked grin again. “And to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, together again.”

They drank.

“You really don’t mind?” John asked.

“Only if you don’t let me have an adventure too.”

John took her hand, kissed her fingers and finally showed her the ring in the box. She beamed and her eyes glittered with happy tears as he slipped it onto her finger.

Life, thought John Watson, couldn’t get any more perfect. His friend was alive. He was back. _Properly_ back. He was going to marry the woman he loved, and she liked Sherlock.

Whatever that sensation was deep down ( _such good friends, eh, Johnnie? He left you behind. He left you in the dark. He left you_ ) he ignored it. Poured another glass of champagne.

( _One. Two. Three. Come on down_.)

_Shut up Harry._

“John?”

John blinked, bringing his mind back to the now. “Sorry. Mary, sweetheart, sorry.”

“Let’s go home,” she said.

“We haven’t eaten.”

“We have food at home. For when we’re hungry.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“I love you, Mary Morstan.”

“Of course you do. I’m fantastic. And you’re fantastic too. Which is why I love you back.”

He laughed; she kissed him; they went home and consummated their engagement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a few conversations, and sleeps badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to note due thanks last chapter for the [transcripts provided by Ariane Devere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html). I'll be using her painstakingly recorded transcripts whenever I'm lifting (and playing around with) dialogue from the episodes.

Sherlock lost Moran in Embankment station. The man just vanished between one bend and the next, just as he’d vanished from the train car in the footage Shilcott had shown him. Men didn’t just vanish (Sherlock had managed the illusion of it for a while, so he knew whereof he spoke) but as yet he couldn’t explain it. Moran had skittered behind a Staff Only maintenance door, of course, but which one? He covered his tracks extremely well, as a renowned hunter would, keeping his presence masked from the prey. Moran’s destination was still obscure, and Sherlock couldn’t narrow down the possible ones. A return visit to Shilcott might reveal where Moran popped up, but not at this time of night.

Sherlock paced. Calculated how long since he’d last slept; how long until it affected him. Well, worse than it already had.

Fully clothed, he stretched on his rumpled bed and decided a half hour wouldn’t hurt.

He woke with a start, heart racing, face wet (sweating, not crying; not whimpering; definitely not those things).

The ring of his phone, which had woken him, sounded again, and he was grateful.

“You’re using John Watson as bait,” came a familiar electronically distorted voice.

Sherlock noted the time – 4am – and shuffled out to the kitchen to make coffee. “It lured Moran out of hiding.”

“And put Watson in danger.”

“He can handle himself.”

“And his girlfriend?”

“She won’t enter into it.”

“That’s not what was reported to me. She’s a fan. Keen to be involved in her boyfriend’s hobbies, apparently.”

“If I tell her she can be part of it, I can manage her involvement. She’s the type to stick her nose in and ruin everything, otherwise.”

“She does seem a bit enthusiastic.”

“Yes.” Sherlock rubbed at his sore eyes while the coffee brewed in the French press. “Why are you still assigned to me? I thought Mycroft would have sacked you by now, for passing my message on to John against his orders. At least posted you to Siberia or wherever they send badly behaved little spies these days.”

“The mission's not over until Moran is dealt with. And there was that tantrum you threw, refusing to work with anyone else. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“Training up another of Mycroft’s goons would be a tedious waste of time.”

The distortion conveyed a deep chuckle. “The rumour in the office is that one conversation with you converts us all into creatures that do your every bidding.”

“Well, _you_ did.” He poured the coffee, strong and black and bitter. It burnt his tongue. Terrible coffee, too hot, overbrewed. It’d keep him awake though.

“For now. I may have to lodge objections to this new ploy with Watson and the girlfriend.”

“Fiancée.”

“What?”

“He proposed. She said yes. Fiancée.”

A beat and then, “I know.” 

That annoyed Sherlock. “Then why pretend you didn't?”

“To see if _you_ knew _."_  

“Go to hell.”

“That’s being saved up until the end of this mission, apparently. And are you sure you know what you’re doing, setting Watson up like that?” 

“What do you expect me to do? Have Mrs Hudson move some wax effigy around in the window so Moran could take a shot at me in Baker Street? Sebastian Moran is a hunter. An _assassin_. Shadow puppets won't do the trick.” Mrs Hudson could have done it of course. The widow of a drug lord was a lot tougher and smarter than she was generally given credit for. She even surprised Sherlock from time to time.

“Does Watson know he's up against an actual assassin? He's not been at his optimum since you died.”

“I'm not dead.”

“He watched you die.”

“ _I'm not dead_.”

“Logic doesn't counter trauma. You know that.”

Sherlock scowled, even though his MI6 friend couldn’t see. ““When am I going to hear your real voice?” he demanded instead of answering.

“You know our boss says the less you know about me the better.”

“He’s not _my_ boss.”

“You keep on telling yourself that, sunshine.”

“Disguising your voice won't keep me from learning more about you.”

“He says you like a challenge.”

“He says a lot of things, my brother.”

“He does. There’s a lot more he keeps unsaid. He thinks that makes him unreadable. You’re alike that way.”

“Are we done here?”

“What’s she like?”

“Who?”

“The girlfriend.”

“She'll suit John very well.”

“You think so?”

“When he dates boring women, they never last. Mary Morstan isn't boring. I haven't worked her out yet, but her feelings for John are genuine, and his for her.”

“Sweet.”

“Quite.”

“What else do you know about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be stupid. Do that thing you do. Show me how clever you are despite how little you sleep. I want to see that you’re on your game.”

Sherlock wanted to hang up. He also wanted to demonstrate that he could still _do that thing he does._

“She bakes. She's an only child. She has a tattoo; partially removed, on her shoulder. She’s short sighted. Romantic. Disillusioned with the Liberal Democrats.”

“Who isn’t?”

“She’s clever. Knows languages.”

“Good.”

“And she’s a liar.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know about what yet.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“To John? I don’t think so.”

“To you?”

“I can’t tell yet.”

“Another reason for involving her. Keeping her close.”

“It was a thought, yes.”

“I’ll run a check on her.”

“You have already.”

“Yes, I have already. Our conclusions are the same as yours.”

Sherlock inspected his hands. The one not holding the phone was shaking slightly.

“I know about you too,” he said.

“What do you know?” His handler sounded amused.

“You're single. You don’t own pets but you mind your neighbour’s dog sometimes. Coffee rather than tea. Yorkshire born, but you’ve rid yourself of the accent. Your elocution teacher came from Kensington. You have a tidy nest egg – losing this job doesn't bother you the way it should.”

“I won’t lose my job. I'm very good at what I do. I have a faultless record in this field.”

“Almost faultless,” he countered immediately. The moment’s silence told him he was right. He drained his terrible coffee and set the cup down. “Want to tell me all about it?” he asked, prying.

“No.” All the light bantering tone had vanished. Even through the electronic filter, he could hear this had touched a nerve. “I’ll speak to you soon about Moran. And keep an eye on Watson and the fiancée.”

“Of course.”

After his handler rang off, Sherlock called Mycroft.

“You were listening in,” Sherlock said.

“Of course I was. You've managed to compromise one of my best analysts and handlers. There will be consequences for that disobedience.”

“For me or my handler?”

“Both.”

“Naturally.”

“And after all that effort and disappearing for a year, now you’re putting Dr Watson in the line of fire to lure out Moran.”

“John knows we're being hunted.”

“He's an idiot.”

“A bit of an idiot. But much smarter than the usual kind of idiot.”

“You should have left the planning to me. You're compromising your own safety.”

“And here we go again.”

“Don’t start…”

“ _I'm not Eurus_.”

“Not yet.”

“Perhaps if you stopped meddling like you always do, neither of us would be driven to…”

He stopped abruptly, aware he’d gone too far by the coldest silence he’d ever heard.

“Mycroft. I'm sorry. That was... that was uncalled for.”

“Watch your step, little brother. It's all I ask. After all, you don't want to take on the burden of my sins, do you? The one who failed to prot-”

“That won’t happen.”

“Be sure it doesn’t.”

“Mycroft...”

But Mycroft had hung up.

*

Sherlock waited in the underground carpark where he’d first surprised Lestrade by not being dead a month ago. He remembered the hug he didn't know what to do with. Mrs Hudson’s startled shriek had been simpler to deal with, once he’d ducked the frying pan. Tears (hers). An apology (his). She’d hugged him too, and scolded him at the same time. But he was used to hugs and scolds from Mrs Hudson.

Hugs from Lestrade were alien. Unpredicted. Sherlock had been bemused all through that long, tight hug. And yet he’d hugged back. Held on even when he didn’t understand it. Held on even when it threatened to unravel him.

Sherlock was grateful that Lestrade hadn't hugged him again. He felt threadbare and feared another expression of unearned affection would leave him unstitched, unspooling.

Lestrade leaned against the wall, having his secret smoke, waiting. Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, and Lestrade greeted him with that same sunny smile, as though delighted afresh to find he'd been so horribly mistaken.

“Geoff,” Sherlock said by way of greeting.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” said Greg in resigned good humour. “It was seven bloody years ago. I’ve apologised, you know. I know I was an arse and I shouldn’t have laughed when you told me your name.”

“Did you do that? I don’t remember.”

“Sure you don’t. Just like you pretend you don’t know my name.”

“Whose pretending? Gerry.”

“Prat,” said Lestrade, but his voice was warm. “What’s this about, then?”

“Today’s papers.”

“Yeah. You’re cleared. Moriarty was real all along.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “About that.”

Sherlock waved the insipient apology away. “Everyone was manipulated by Moriarty. We let it happen. Forget it.”

“I would, but you were dead for a year, so…” he cleared his throat again, “Anderson went a bit mad. Reckoned you were still alive. Tracked you across Europe. Well. I thought he was having a breakdown.”

“He was. That wasn’t me he was tracking.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“All right, then. So, what about the papers?”

“They don’t mention Sebastian Moran.”

“Who?”

“One of Moriarty’s crew. The last one. When I text you, be ready.”

“You got it. Anything you need.”

“Thank you. Graham.”

“Twat.” But Lestrade was still grinning. He ground his cigarette out under his heel, popped a fresh mint. By the time he left the car park, Sherlock had gone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is hallucinating from lack of sleep. Then he takes sleeping tablets so he can sleep without nightmares. It hasn't stopped disaster. He's miscalculated a second time, and this time it may cost John his life.

Moriarty was on the street corner, laughing at him, when Sherlock emerged from the car park into the light. The fey little murderer was pole dancing, singing Toxic and waggling his tongue like a sleazy lizard at every passing person. Not one of the pedestrians paid him the slightest bit of attention.

Well, of course not. Moriarty had fulfilled his own death wish and had died on a rooftop where he’d left his brains. But not his death squads. One of those still to bring down.

And now Moriarty did a little spin, hanging upside down to reveal the cavity in the back of his head and a dribble of blood leaking stickily to the concrete.

_Hallucination._

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his hands against the lids.

If this kept going, he was going to get John killed. Himself too, probably. But that was less important than getting John killed when he’d already given up so much to keep him (and Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade) safe.

John would probably also be very pissed off if he got Mary Morstan killed.

Fine. Sleep. Sleeping tablets. Should knock him out long enough to stop seeing Moriarty – and hearing him singing. Seeing him dancing. For god’s sake. Then he’d see John tonight and bring the rest of the plan to a close.

At Baker Street, he slept. Six hours. Not precisely dreamless. _Sounds. Such sounds. Rush of wind and John’s voice as he fell; rush of wind as the knife just misses his throat; rush of wind and the rocks sliding under their feet until the other man fell, fell, fell; rush of wind, branches on his face as he runs runs runs…_

He showered and shaved when he woke. Wouldn’t do to look, or smell, less hygienic than the trainspotter.

Shilcott had texted. Sherlock took himself out to meet Shilcott at Regent’s Park. Shilcott was wearing that stinky hat of his. His girlfriend was with him ( _anxiety disorder, collects owls, she feels safe with Shilcott, wants kids, so does he; good god, though he’d seen worse matches_ ).

No sign of Moran emerging anywhere from Embankment or any of the surrounding stations. The hunter had doubtless doubled back and could have caught any train through Embankment. Perhaps even St James’s Park or Westminster.

Sherlock stopped for chips on the way back. No nutritional value to speak of, but warm and filling. There was a comfort in eating chips. Perfectly normal to eat chips alone. Nothing lonely at all in standing there in his coat, sideways by the window, watching the street and seeing nothing. No assassins (good); nobody interesting (dull); no John (lonely) ( _don’t, don’t, don’t_ ).

Sherlock wished his favourite spy would call. That distorted voice on the phone had been his lifeline for a year. Someone to talk to. Someone to get messages through to the important people. Someone to listen.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his fist to his diaphragm against the thudding of his heart. Willed it to calmness.

Once this was truly and properly over, with Moran in custody or dead or whatever it took for this to be _goddamned over_ , everything would be fine. He'd be fine. Back to normal. Nobody need ever know that he hadn't been. Though he was fine. _Absolutely fine._

So Sherlock ate chips at the window, staring out at the street, thoughts spiralling down dizzy paths of ‘if this then _that_ , if _that_ then _this_ , if not _this_ or _this_ then _that_ ’. He couldn’t reach a conclusion. Too many fragments. The endings were all frayed. But they had to tie up, so he could get back to everything as it used to be. Even with John having a girlfriend ( _fiancée_ ). But Sherlock liked Mary. John wouldn't be bored with Mary. Sherlock wasn't bored with her. Not yet. She'd only laughed when he'd spiked the proposal (not really on purpose though maybe a little bit, but no)

And suddenly there she was, swooping down the street in a big red dramatic coat. Sherlock couldn't help grinning a bit at that. It was almost as if John had a type...

In a moment, though, his sluggish brain caught up with what he was seeing, and the empty meal that had warmed his hands was discarded on the floor as he ran – snatching up his coat, clattering down the stairs, past Mrs Hudson in the hall, dressed to the nines, on her way out. ( _Date. Mr Chatterjee. She’s driving_ ) and opening the front door as Mary raised her fist to pound frantically on the wood.  

“What’s happened to John?” Sherlock demanded.

Mary, eyes wide and frightened, held up her phone. “I was walking to meet him after work and this message came. I nearly deleted it but it was so strange. Look.”

Sherlock took in the message at a glance.

 **Save souls now!**  
**John or James Watson?**  
**Is he Saint or Sinner?**  
**James or John?**  
**The more is Less.**

“It’s a sk-“

“Skip code,” Sherlock finished the sentence for her.

“Like in those ridiculous movies he watches.” Mary was almost in tears.

Mrs Hudson spoke suddenly. “What’s wrong? Is John all right?”

“I’ve miscalculated again.” Sherlock’s voice was laden with horror. “Mrs Hudson, I need the keys.”

“You know I don’t…”

“ ** _The keys, Mrs Hudson_**!” he roared, and she flinched, but she threw him the car keys and he snatched them out of the air.

“Bring him home, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson called after them as Sherlock and Mary ran to the street. A button press opened the doors of the red sports car: Sherlock was driving off before Mary had even closed the passenger side door.

The skip code message burned behind Sherlock’s eyelids as he calculated the route.

 **Save**  
John        Watson?  
         Saint   
James   
The         Less

Mary began to give directions in a terse voice, but he waved her silent.

“Call Lestrade. Tell him to call off the pursuit.”

“What pursuit?”

Police sirens sounded behind them as the red car broke speed limits, lurching off Marylebone Road down Gloucester, heading for Mayfair, Green Park, Westminster, Pimlico ( _John, John, John_ ).

“I don’t have his number!”

“Phone. Inside pocket.”

Mary reached under Sherlock’s coat to fetch the phone. “That’s why you didn’t answer?” She upped the volume, pressed the home button and told the voice activator “Call Lestrade.”

“Whom shall I call for you?” asked the phone.

“Just Greg!” Sherlock shouted.

“Call Greg.” Mary pressed the phone to her ear, and began speaking almost at once.

Sherlock didn’t listen to her explanations. He didn’t remember turning the phone down. And then he did, because Mycroft had kept calling and calling and fucking calling and he didn’t want to listen to Mycroft and his warnings, name dropping Eurus and the East Wind. That old ghost story. He wasn’t a child any more.

Mycroft’s voice snaked into his brain.

_You don't want to take on the burden of my sins, do you?_

Sherlock adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as he tore down another street. No. No. This was not the same and would not end the same way. Not after everything he’d done to end Moriarty’s empire and finally end that venomous game.

The sirens faded. Stopped.

The sports car slewed to a halt in front of the church of St James the Lesser, and the moment Sherlock saw the bonfire, the man setting the torch to the heap of tinder placed to blaze in moments, setting the Guy on fire, he knew what Moran had done.

He ran. He ran. He ran.

He could see because he was looking. John’s shoe, the brown brogue, just visible through the first flickering of the flames. A gloved hand. John’s coat.

“John!”

Sherlock dived into the fire, heedless of sparks on his coat, on his hands, on his face, in his hair. Pushing and pulling at kindling. Reaching for John, reaching for…

_No._

_Oh god, no._

The figure he’d pulled from underneath the bonfire wasn’t John. It wasn’t even human. A straw figure, the feet of it stuffed into John’s shoes, the hands of it into John’s gloves, the body clad in trousers and checked shirt that were not John’s, but the coat that was.

Mary stood beside Sherlock, panting with fear. “It isn’t him. Oh thank god, it isn’t him!”

Sherlock’s phone in Mary’s clenched hands chimed with a text message.

“Close but no cigar, Holmes.”

Then another.

“Did I say The Less? I meant The Park.”

Police cars were pulling up, but Sherlock was running back to the car.

“Call Lestrade!” he shouted at Mary, who still held his phone, “Then send the police to St James’s Park station.”

Slam of the door. Engine fired up.

“Call Mycroft. Tell him what’s happened. Wait. That’s under-.“ He pressed his lips together in chagrin then yelled it out anyway, “Prissy Bastard. Tell him he’s wrong about the bomb. Not Parliament. New Scotland Yard, via St James’s.”

He didn’t stop to see if she did as she was told.

Sherlock abandoned the car on the street by the station and ran in, leaping the barriers and looking for the Staff Only signs, showing the way to maintenance corridors linking parts of the station.

What had Shilcott said? An abandoned plan to have a Met train from the Met HQ to MI6. Either someone decided it was a stupid idea or they just ran out of money. But step one had been completed, tracks laid, even a platform roughly built under New Scotland Yard before a halt had been called to it and the entrances sealed.

Sebastian Moran, though – no doubt working on a plan of Moriarty’s – had shifted an entire train car, filled it with explosives and had waited for Sherlock to make a mistake.

Sherlock reached the entrance to the sealed tunnel, only the metal door to it was ajar.

The mouth of the tunnel was wide and dark and deep and dank. Like a well.

_Not like a well. Horizontal for a start. The east wind is a ghost story. Move._

Sherlock stepped through the door and walked into darkness.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts Moran at a train car full of explosives. John's trapped in the car with no way out. Sherlock is handcuffed outside. Everything has gone tits up. But for whom?

The missing train car rested on the tracks, illuminated by faint light from two hurricane lanterns. As he approached, Sherlock could make out a pale face at the window of the rear door.

In front of the door was a darker silhouette.

“You took your time.”

“It’s a bit of a walk here from the station,” said Sherlock as calmly as if his heart wasn’t hammering the blood through his veins, adrenalin belatedly clearing the last of the sleeping pill; the last of the nightmare drag of too little sleep and too much fear.

“Come a little closer, then. Your pet locked up tight in his box and if you want the key, you need to come closer.”

Sherlock came closer. He could see there was a crack in the window. Many cracks, radiating from a bullet hole in the centre. At the window, John was shaking his head. John’s mouth was saying _No._ John’s eyes were saying _Run._

“You thought you’d use John Watson as bait to bring me out. Now I’ve staked your stalking goat under my own tree, and here you come, tame little tiger, right where I want you.”

“It’s amusing you think so. John played his part to perfection.” Sherlock nodded at the darkening skin on Moran’s face. “Gave you a black eye to boot, when you took him. I hope he didn’t make it too easy. I did warn him you’d smell a rat if it was too easy.”

That had been the original plan; Sherlock was meant to have finalised the arrangements with John after work tonight. John hadn’t been completely taken by surprise, but it had all happened much sooner than Sherlock had calculated. All those careful plans, made in the letter he’d slipped into John’s pocket at the restaurant. Nearly all burnt to ashes because Sherlock wasn’t at the top of his game.

Moran’s teeth gleamed by the light of the lanterns. There was a gap where he’d lost a tooth. “You’re funny, trying to look like you’re still in control here.”

“You’re funny, trying to work out my next move.”

“I know your next move. Jim told me what to expect from you.”

“Jim Moriarty is dead. Some of his brain matter is still in crevices on the roof of St Bart’s.”

Moran scowled at him. “This is an unfortunate fact. But we talked long nights about you, Jim and me.”

“Couldn’t think of anything better to do?”

The grin became a leer. “Who says we weren’t doing better things at the time?” Then the leer became a curl of hatred. “He told me what to do if you got the upper hand. All the instructions. All the options. He was clever, my Jim.”

“Really? In my experience, really clever people don’t shoot their own brains out to win a game.”

“That was my Jim, though. Dedicated.”

“So what’s the final act here? If I kill myself, you’ll let John go?”

“Why would I let John Watson go? No. The final act here is that you get to sit here and know you can’t save him, or save yourself, and then you both die.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounded deeply bored. “Dull.”

Moran produced a gun. "Your pet brought this gun." He dangled the pistol from his fingers. "Didn't anyone ever tell him not to bring a gun to a bomb fight?" Sherlock thought about darting forward, but the gun was immediately in Moran’s grip, his finger on the trigger. “I’d prefer to just shoot you. I could still just shoot you. But Jim thought this would be more poetic. He liked poetic. So for him, I’ll do it this way. Though maybe I could just shoot you in the leg. For fun. Keep you from trying anything.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the car. To John’s grim face at the window. Sherlock could see now the trickle of blood from John’s temple to his jaw.

“I was very keen to put a bullet in him too, but I didn’t want him to bleed out before you got here. It’s a punishment for him too. Now. Put these on.”

Moran threw Sherlock a pair of handcuffs.

Sherlock caught them. Examined them. “Not in the mood, and frankly, you’re not my type.”

“You’re hilarious. On your right wrist I think. And now the other end on the handle of the door. I’ll shoot you if I have to, you know. You won’t bleed to death before the bomb goes off. You’ll still get to know you couldn’t save anybody.”

“Do you really think I came without telling anyone?”

“I really think it doesn’t matter who you told. We’ve got about ten minutes. Well. You have. He’s got…” Moran made a big show of checking his watch, “Nine minutes and 50 seconds. You get to watch while the car blows up. Not for long of course. Hands.”

Sherlock refused to look through the window at John while Moran handcuffed him to the car. But he clenched his hands in Moran’s coat.

“How are you going to get away in nine minutes?”

“Who says I plan to?”

“One suicidal psychopath seems like good luck; two would just be too good to be true.”

“You’re right. But I’m going to have a metal door between me and the blast, which will go through the path of least resistance. Down this tunnel, up through the exhaust vent into the basement of Scotland Yard. Might not burn it to the ground, but we can hope, right?”

“This is all very elaborate, just to murder me.”

“You and John Watson, if I ever got the chance. It’s a bit rough, I’ll grant you. Jim didn’t get a chance to tidy up the details and then decided he didn’t need it. The rooftop was better, he thought.”

“For me, certainly.”

“Still. Even a second rate plan of Jim’s has got you handcuffed to a train car, and I have to go.”

Moran limped into the darkness towards the door through which Sherlock had entered. He turned. “By the way, if you get bored in the next eight minutes, maybe you could fill the time thinking about who it is who’s been watching you. It wasn’t just me. You and the Doc have got other eyes on you.”

“Go away,” said Sherlock, “I’m bored.”

“Never mind,” said Moran’s voice, fading as he hurried away, “Won’t be for long.”

Sherlock didn't wait till the darkness swallowed him before he turned to the car. “John!”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock twisted his hands in the metal cuffs. Twisted his fingers. “What’s in the car with you?”

“A bloody great bomb.”

“Can you get it open to reveal the workings?”

“Won’t that set it off?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t _think_ so?”

“Any better ideas?”

“No.”

Another twist, nimble fingers aching with the pressure, and the handcuffs sprang open on his right wrist. Never mind the left.

“It’s open. Now what?”

Sherlock pulled himself up to peer through the window at John crouched on the floor next to the bomb.

The very big bomb.

“Don’t suppose you know how to disarm it?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope.  Doctor, remember? Not the bomb squad.”

“Pity.”

“Yes, if I’d known where my career would lead me, I’d have made better choices.”

John’s mouth was twisted in a wry, despairing laugh, but he caught Sherlock’s eye and the sound stayed trapped in his throat.

“John. I’m so sorry.”

John rose from the crouch to stand by the window.

“You’re not cuffed any more.”

“No.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“We’ll…we’ll…”

“What? Die together? You’ve got time to get to the door. He’s right about the blast radius. You have a chance if you run now.”

“No.” Sherlock worked on the train car door, but it had been soldered shut. The lock pick he'd used on the cuffs wasn’t going to cut it.

“Sherlock.”

“Don’t waste the last five minutes we have arguing about something I’m not going to do. _Think_.”

John blinked at him. Sherlock could see him thinking. His jaw working. Blue eyes haunted and filled with regret. John thinking, _Don’t don’t don’t._

 _Don’t,_ thought Sherlock. _Not now._

“Why have you been avoiding me?” John’s voice was steady when he spoke at last. Almost steady. Maybe only Sherlock would ever know the difference, because he knew John so well.

“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was trying to keep you safe until I got Moran.” He shrugged. Despairing himself, trying to hide it. Could John tell? “That didn’t turn out exactly as I’d planned it.”

“No. Oh well. I knocked one of his teeth out. That’s something.”

“It is indeed something.”

“How long?”

“Four minutes. Less.”

“Bugger.”

“Quite.”

John looked at his feet. Sherlock looked at John. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I planned before I left. I’m sorry you didn’t get the message. I’m sorry for never telling you…”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

John looked up at him, eyes feverish bright. “I had a friend. Charlie Woodvale. Bomb squad. You know what he always said?”

“What?”

“He always said, the home-made bombs were the worst. They’d go off if a rabbit sneezed. Give him a flash, computerised, military grade megaton bomb any day. They have off switches.”

And he was on his knees, bending over the guts of the thing (Timer: 2:45. 2:44. 2:43) his hands shoved deep into the casing around the edge of the explosives packed in and encased in a net of wiring (2:40. 2:39. 2:38. 2:37. 2:37. 2:37.)

“There.” John drew back carefully and sagged against the wall, eyes closed, face covered in perspiration.

“You do realise,” said Sherlock, trying not to let the tremor show in his voice, “If you’d jostled it the wrong way it would have gone up.”

John grinned and waggled his fingers in the air. “Surgeon’s hands. Sharpshooter. Remember?”

John opened his eyes and grinned at Sherlock. Then his grin softened into concern.

“Are you okay?

“Me? Fine. Fine. Absolutely fine.”

“You're not fine.”

“I am.”

“Sherlock. I'm not an idiot. Dehydration. Sleep deficiency. Stress, anxiety. I'm a doctor used to dealing with military patients showing signs of stress disorders. You're not fine.”

Sherlock gave it up. “No. I'm not fine.”

“You will be.”

“I’m not sure I will be. I’ve… I’m… different.”

“Of course you’ve changed,” said John, gentle; kind. “You’ve been to war.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to be different. I want to still be me.”

The kindness now held a note of… recognition. “We all come back different, Sherlock. But you came back. We'll work it out.”

Sherlock stared at him. Nodded. Perhaps they would. He wasn’t alone any more. It wasn't just him at that lifeline voice on the telephone.

“John. Before. When I was…”

“It’s okay,” John interrupted. “I forgive you. I’m not sure I forgive Mycroft.”

“Mycroft was motivated by…” Sherlock bit the inside of his lip. _Ghosts._ “Good intentions.”

“The paving stones on the way to hell, you mean?”

John didn’t know how true that was. Instead of replying, Sherlock took the handcuffs and smashed at the window to make a bigger gap. John rose to meet him there. To push his fingers through the gap and place them over Sherlock’s.

“Someone’s coming to get us, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Breathe. Deeply. Come on.”

Sherlock hadn’t known he was panting with shallow breaths. He breathed deeply, in and out, John’s fingers resting over his.

“I’m glad, you know. That the hearse was empty.”

“It wasn’t exactly empty,” Sherlock told him. “Moriarty was in it.”

John huffed a laugh.

“I can tell you how I did it, if you like.”

“Something like landing on a big mattress behind that centre block, was it?”

“Something like that.”

“I've been thinking about it a lot since I got the message from your MI6 handler. You're still a git.”

“Sorry.”

“You must have had a half dozen people in on it.”

“Mycroft. A handful of others.”

“Fantastic.” John sounded annoyed. Less pissed off than he might have been.

“Mycroft told our parents afterwards.”

“Of course he did. He told me they were too upset to come to the funeral. Avoiding the tabloids. That sort of thing.”

“Did he?”

“Your brother’s an arse.”

“I won’t argue the point.” _But he kept us out of the well._

_Time to change the subject._

"Are you really planning to keep that beard?"

John scratches at it. "Maybe. Mary likes it."

"She really doesn't."

John scowled at him. "Charming. This is the bit I haven't missed, in case you're wondering." But his heart wasn't really in it.

"You look like someone from my homeless network," said Sherlock firmly.

"Christ." John scratched at the beard again, more self consciously.

"Never mind. It's something Mary and I have in common."

"What?" 

"We prefer our doctors clean shaven."

“John! Sherlock!”

They both looked up as Mary Morstan broke from behind the group of men in black fatigues. Mycroft’s men.

“Oh thank god you’re all right! They got him, Sherlock. That horrible man.”

Sherlock stood back, letting Mary up to the window where she entwined her fingers with John’s. He heard John saying soothing things to her. _It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both fine._

“The bug you put on him worked a treat,” said one of Mycroft’s agents while another went to the other end of the train car to break a window and get inside. “Picked Moran up just as he was stepping onto the District Line. This is yours.” He handed Sherlock his phone.

It beeped.

A message from Mycroft.

 **Your disobedient friend from the**  
**office saw to Moran’s capture.  Sacking**  
**put off to another day.**

Sherlock couldn’t help a smile at the thought of his _disobedient friend_.

Sherlock was far from fine. He was not himself. But he would be. He had not changed and would not change. And John’s girlfriend, no, fiancée was interesting at least. Had shown herself to be fast, resourceful, not without courage. A good match for him.

_They would be fine. And nothing had really changed. Nothing at all._

Right at this moment, the knowledge of that stability was what Sherlock needed; a truth in which he took comfort. 


End file.
